I lie a lot. Only about important things, to people I love. I cheated on your mother but to be fair, she cheated on me. Maybe? I was a coward, and never asked she was braver than I, so she knows what I did. I'm not even sure if you were mine. She never wanted you, but I did I think. I'm confident I do now, but not sure I did then. She says she doesn't think about you— or us but she was always full of shit. I say writing’s a dream, but it's largely a post-her— post-you, back-up. so, I should be grateful. At least you left me
with ink on paper.